Chapter 40

‘Sounds ominous,' Tom says, flicking the lights on in the lounge. ‘What's this about?' I follow him swiftly, rubbing the back of my neck.

‘The thing is,' I begin, inhaling a faint fug of polish.

The TV flickers on. ‘Hang on,' he says, not looking at me. Tom hits a few buttons on the remote control, settling on a football match. ‘You don't mind if I watch the highlights while we're talking, do you?'

Fessing up about Liam isn't something I can do while he's watching football. ‘Don't worry, watch your match. It can wait.'

He smiles up at me, settling back on the sofa. ‘Only if you're sure.'

‘I am,' and then, ‘Feet,' I say and he removes his size elevens from the freshly polished coffee table. Daisy must've given the room a once over. I'll have a word with her about it in the morning. She's not our housekeeper. ‘Do you want anything else to eat? We forgot the doggy-bag at The Stage,' I lie. Tom shakes his head- tells me it'll give him heartburn. I leave him to his football and head for the kitchen.

‘How the hell did you miss that?' Tom's voice booms from the lounge as I flick the kettle on. Mr Stanhope will definitely be calling noise pollution tonight. ‘It was an open goal, for fuck's sake.'

Smiling reflectively, I lean against the worktop as the kettle rumbles and thrashes, my eyes darting around our huge, gleaming, state-of-the-art kitchen. With its sleek teal cabinets, stylish island, chic wooden breakfast bar, and forty-seven-inch screen mounted against the bare brick wall, it is breath-taking. The kind of kitchen you see celebrities posing in with their perfect families and French Bulldogs in Hello. Am I about to lose everything for one stupid mistake?

I gaze up at the full moon through the skyline windows, wishing it would purge my guilt. The kettle judders on the worktop. How did a girl like me end up with a life like this? I loved our old mid-terrace, but you couldn't swing a cat in our kitchen. Zelda was gobsmacked when she first saw this one, said she'd kill for a kitchen like mine. The idiom sends a chill along my spine and I do a little shudder. She didn't kill Frank. She can't have. He got up and walked away, for goodness' sake.

Exhaling loudly, I go to move, and just then I hear something rattling outside. I stop stock still and listen. Silence. I take a step forward. There's a thump followed by a knock on the door – tap, tap, tap. My stomach surges. Someone's outside. I'm about to call Tom when a thought rams into my brain. Could it be Frank? I silently recite the ominous email from KillingSteve1984, word for word – Those with blood on their hands must pay. Linda and Zelda were wrong. It wasn't spam. F is Frank.

I cock my head and listen, mouth drying. Nothing, apart from the click of the kettle and white noise coming from the TV in the lounge. I inch closer, straining my ears but am met with silence. Surely, there's no one out there. No, of course not. I'm overreacting, that's all. It was probably an animal looking for food. I rub my forehead, what is wrong with me? Frank isn't hiding in our garden. I'm about to walk away when I catch sight of a fleeting shadow outside. That was definitely no animal. Adrenalin soars through my blood as I lurch forward and fumble with the lock. The door flies open. A gust of wind sweeps into the house.

I step into the night, cold seeping through my skin, chilling my bones. The wind has picked up and it's whistling in my ears. ‘Hello?' I cry, rubbing my arms and wishing I'd kept my tights on. Trees shiver in the gust, casting shadows on the rattan furniture besides the fluttering parasol. I take a few tentative steps forward. ‘Is anyone there?' I gulp, voice trembling. But my words are swallowed into the darkness.

‘Frank?' My cold breath plumes. ‘Frank, is that you?' What am I doing? Frank won't answer, even if he's here. He wants revenge. He's going to hunt us all down one by one and make us pay. I mean, I know it sounds farfetched but he did try to strangle my sister. What's to stop him from murdering me in cold blood right now? My daughter will be motherless. Tom will be a widower.

A fox screams nearby and my stomach spasms. I need protection. My eyes race around the patio, pausing on a brick that is weighted on the feet of a metal solar chicken light. Tom put it there to stop the wind from blowing it away. The sound of squeaking and juddering catches my attention, forcing me to spin round.

Without thinking, I tiptoe along the patio, grit and cold pinching my bare feet, and peer over the wall. A wooden door swings in the whistling wind. My body sags with relief. It isn't Frank. It's Maureen and Stewart's back gate. It's been left open. It wouldn't be the first time. Maureen has banned Alex, their twenty-four-year-old son, from bringing his muddy boots into the house after rugby practice. He now has to leave them in the garden until they've been cleaned. Sometimes, after a few drinks with the lads, Alex forgets to put the latch back on before going inside.

Securing their gate on the latch, I berate myself for being so paranoid. Frank isn't a serial killer. He's probably sunning himself somewhere on the Mediterranean coast this very moment, cocktail in hand. Get a bloody grip, woman, and sort your mess out before you lose everything.